Mugwort grows here in the summer months, ragwort and wild rose too, the bare skeletons of the latter reach up from the winter grass, the hips bright red like oxgenated blood. The scent of fox urine fills my nose as I enter into the dog foxes territory. It feels like I’ve come home.

A good part of a geological age has been dug from the depths of the earth. Is it any wonder she speaks to us of the Carboniferous in broken dreams and calls our attention to our existing wetlands?

There is definitely something about being on a hilltop in autumn, surrounded by mist and the lonely call of the crows. If magic is a feeling, it is this feeling. But then I say the same about the woods, the ocean, the riverside and more. Magic is nature and nature is magic, I guess it really is as simple as that.

When we see ourselves as part of the landscape, only then, I believe we’ll put in the real work to stop the destruction of it.

But how likely is that do you reckon?

From Lia Hunter, a ghazal poem inspired by the Navajo Night Chant.